


Friends and Other Broken Things

by herradurra1



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2015-02-27
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:15:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3448505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herradurra1/pseuds/herradurra1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vincent recuperates from a work injury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Friends and Other Broken Things

Vincent opened one eye, the one that wasn’t still swollen from smashing his head into a rock, and wondered why in all hells he had told Rude he could manage on his own. He had a wrenched ankle, a broken collarbone, and his chest felt like someone had lined it with shards of glass.

How in all hells was he getting dressed? It didn’t matter, he could just stay in bed all day. Except, the pain pills on an empty stomach made him puke, which he’d discovered last night, and he couldn’t figure out how to cook breakfast with one hand. There was milk in the fridge, but it was probably dated before Meteor.

Damn it, he really wanted a pain pill. Did he have bread? He couldn’t remember. He hauled himself out of bed around the leg brace and hobbled into the kitchen.

No bread. He didn’t care for sandwiches, so bread did nothing but sit on the counter and turn into a science experiment. The refrigerator contained some Wutai takeout, which made his stomach rebel at the very thought of the greasy spicy concoction he usually loved, and batteries for the camera, stored there to increase their shelf life.

He really, really needed to learn to cook.

It was then that he noticed a couple apples on the bar. He wasn’t sure they would constitute a heavy enough meal to settle his stomach but maybe with an anti nausea shot, he’d live till lunch.

He tried to pick both up at once in his right hand, and dropped them, cursing as they rolled under the counter. There was no luck reaching it without getting down on the floor, and he feared that he’d never get up if he got down there anyway. Just when he was about to despair, or just take the damn pill anyway and hope some of it absorbed before making a reappearance, he heard a key in the door.

“Rude?”

“Naw, he’s still at work but I figured you’d be too stubborn to ask for help even if ya needed it, so here I am.”

“Oh Cid.” He would not weep with relief. He would not. And throwing himself into the pilot’s arms would just hurt with so many broken bones so he stood there in the kitchen looking like a depressed idiot.

“I’m right, ain’t I?”

“I need breakfast and I dropped my apple.” Oh, like that didn’t sound absurd and pathetic.

“Your apple.”

“I don’t have anything for breakfast and I need to eat to take my medicine and I don’t want to call Rude to bring me anything because he needs to work.” Being a Turk had changed somewhat; they were allowed to have families now, and sick time, and vacations, within reasonable parameters. But still, running out on a workday because one’s boyfriend needed breakfast and the only two pieces of fruit had rolled under the counter sounded thin even for a civilian workplace.

That wouldn’t fly even in a post-Remnant ShinRa.

But Cid, blessed Cid, just piled bags of groceries on the counter. He’d brought groceries. Tea, and oatmeal, and that fancy artisan bread that was the only kind Vincent liked, and the makings for chicken salad, and fresh fruit and vegetables. “Go lay down. I’ll bring ya something in a minute.” Vincent stood there for a few minutes. “I said go on!”

He crawled back in bed, still miserable and achy and hungry. He tried to prop himself up to arrange the pillows before remembering his broken collarbone, and collapsed back in pain. Several minutes later Cid entered the bedroom with a tray containing oatmeal and chopped apples--he’d obviously retrieved at least one--juice and tea. Oatmeal wasn’t his favorite but it would be a more soothing than a sausage, egg, cheese and bacon monstrosity. “Ya need anything else?”

“Fluff my pillows?”

He did. Vincent was pretty convinced that for all his abrasive, cursing, loudmouth, social ineptness, Cid was the grand prize in the best friend lottery. “Want a pedicure with that?”

Then again...

“Touch my feet and die.”

“I mean it, Vince. Why didn’t you call me?”

“Not hurt that bad.” And, he wasn’t. None of his injuries were life threatening, or even disabling. He was hurt just badly enough to be miserable. He scooched up on the pillows a little and ate his breakfast. “But thank you for coming.”


End file.
